The Girls of Hartstone Hall (Closed for Hadruprider)

Emily Blake always found Hartstone Hall in summer to be a strange, almost ethereal place. With the girls on the summer vacation, it was both wonderfully peaceful and eerily quiet. There was no early bell rousing the dormitories, no blast of cold showers, no clatter of cutlery and chatter in the dining room, no patter of shoes rushing to lessons. No clacking of hockey sticks or calls from open girls on the netball court, no swish of the cane or crack of the strap in detention. It also seemed an oddly forbidden place to Emily, because, for her time as a pupil at the school, it had been exactly that. Pack your trunk up in late June, and arrive back with fresh sets of uniform and books in September.

Now, in her fifth year as History Mistress, Emily smiled at the recollections. Not yet thirty, she remembered her time as a pupil all too clearly; those heady post-war years as hockey captain, prefect and Head Girl. She had wanted nothing more than to return to the school, and her wish had been granted when Miss Saunders, her former House Mistress, had taken over the Headship. A reformer, Miss Saunders had brought on several younger teachers, including herself.

As she liked to do on such warm days, Emily took off her shoes and walked barefoot across the hockey pitches, her toes sinking pleasantly into the early morning dew. How different these grassy surfaces were from the quagmires of February, with Hartstone's finest in the heat of battle against St Mary's or Paddlewood Hall. She replaced her shoes as she reached the gravel path which bisected the netball courts to her left, and the open woodland to her right. Soon, after the familiar twists and turns, the path opened out on a vista of the Hall itself, a great block of sturdy Jacobean stone. Emily saw that waiting for her on the sweeping staircase, waving, was the Headmistress herself.

"Good morning, Emily," said Miss Saunders, in her customary good humour.

"Good morning, Headmistress," said Emily. She had never, and would never, graduate to calling Miss Saunders "Susan", even in the most informal of circumstances.

"Are you ready for the interview? It really does promise to be most interesting."

"Yes, Headmistress," said Emily. If anything, she was rather nervous, it being the first time she had been asked to sit on an interview committee. Miss Eileen 'Basher' Bulstrode had retired at the end of the academic year, and Emily had been surprised and delighted to be asked to replace her.

"Quite the historic moment for the school, too," said Miss Saunders, as they walked inside. "I do so hope he's suitable."

Emily nodded. She was, of course, aware of the controversy surrounding the interview of a male teacher, and in Games as well! She had seen the letters of protest, from the traditionalists amongst the parents. How, they said, could they permit a man to dole out the bare bottom spankings that were so common at Hartstone? But then, she had seen the letters of support, too. These girls were whacked at home by their fathers, and the school was trusted to act in loco parentis, so what was the problem? Emily, on balance, agreed with the latter. It was the 1960s now, after all, and the first shoots of gender equality were creeping into the most unlikely of professions.

The committee convened in the rooms of the Deputy Headmistress, Olive Malone, a confirmed opponent of the appointment. The other participants, keeping their cards hitherto close to their chest, were Jacqui Weekes, Head of Latin, and Dorothy Meaker, a prim, silent woman representing the Board of Governors. Cups of tea and plates of lemon sponge were shared out, as the committee took their places behind a long desk purloined from the assembly hall for the purpose.

"He's here." A head peeped through the door, that of Fiona McKay, the flame-haired, freckled school secretary.

"Thank you, Fiona," said the Headmistress. "Please show him in."

Charles Dodson drove home through the drizzle in his Morris Minor after another tiring and unrewarding day at the school. He taught French and German and Physical Education, and most of the boys showed no ability or enthusiasm either for the languages or the sports. Only a few showed any talent, and often appeared to lose it under peer pressure from the other boys. Discipline was also a problem, and this was not resolved by the regular use of the cane.

"How was your day at work dear?" asked Mary, as she hung up his coat and handed him a cup of tea.

"Oh, same as ever. Those boys are so lazy. They don't even seem to enjoy playing football. And I've got a pile of French essays to mark tonight."

"Well never mind, I've made us a nice shepherd's pie for dinner."

They had been married almost 20 years now, and although they got on well, the spark had gone. He slumped in his armchair and picked up the newspaper. There was a lot of discussion of the upcoming election, and whether it might be time for a change of government after the long Tory rule. Not that he really cared much about politics.

Towards the back of the paper, an advert caught his eye:
'Hartstone School. Games Mistress required.'
The salary offered was almost twice what he was getting. Hartstone Hall was renowned as one of the top boarding schools in the country. But it was a school for girls and the advert specifically asked for a schoolmistress. Could he apply? Would they even consider his application? It was the 1960s, and women were starting to demand equal treatment, so could it work the other way too? The thought of teaching girls sports excited him, particularly hockey - there was something about the skirts they wore.

During the next day he decided to send in an application. That evening he worked on refining it, and discussed it with Mary. She did not seem very keen on the idea of him being surrounded by teenage girls in short skirts, but accepted that it would be a step up in his career and would welcome the higher salary.

So it was that Charles found himself entering the elegant courtyards and charming historic architecture of the famous girls' school for his interview. He wore his smartest suit and tie, determined to make a good impression. A young secretary asked him to wait for a while, then ushered him into the interview room.

He felt that his chances were slim as he looked at the interview panel lined up on the other side of the table. Most of the women were middle-aged and severe looking. But there was one attractive blonde woman, slim and tall, several years younger than him, who gave him a slight smile. He sat down, trying to hide his nerves, and awaited their questions.